Tell Me Your Dreams (3 page)

I
N
another place, at another time, Alette Peters could have been a successful artist. As far back as she could remember, her senses were tuned to the nuances of color. She could see colors, smell colors and hear colors.

Her father’s voice was blue and sometimes red.

Her mother’s voice was dark brown.

Her teacher’s voice was yellow.

The grocer’s voice was purple.

The sound of the wind in the trees was green.

The sound of running water was gray.

Alette Peters was twenty years old. She could be plain-looking, attractive or stunningly beautiful, depending on her mood or how she was feeling about herself. But she was never simply pretty. Part of her charm was that she was completely unaware of her looks. She was shy and soft-spoken, with a gentleness that was almost an anachronism.

Alette had been born in Rome, and she had a musical Italian accent. She loved everything about Rome. She had stood at the top of the Spanish Steps and looked over the city and felt that it was hers. When she gazed at the ancient temples and the giant Colosseum, she knew she belonged to that era. She had strolled in the Piazza Navona, listened to the music of the waters in the Fountain of the Four Rivers and walked the Piazza Venezia, with its wedding cake monument to Victor Emanuel II. She had spent endless hours at St. Peter’s Basilica, the Vatican Museum and the Borghese Gallery, enjoying the timeless works of Raphael and Fra Bartolommeo and Andrea del Sarto and Pontormo. Their talent both transfixed her and frustrated her. She wished she had been born in the sixteenth century and had known them. They were more real to Alette than the passers-by on the streets. She wanted desperately to be an artist.

She could hear her mother’s dark brown voice:
“You’re wasting paper and paint. You have no talent.”

The move to California had been unsettling at first. Alette had been concerned as to how she would adjust, but Cupertino had turned out to be a pleasant surprise. She enjoyed the privacy that the small town afforded, and she liked working for Global
Computer Graphics Corporation. There were no major art galleries in Cupertino, but on weekends, Alette would drive to San Francisco to visit the galleries there.

“Why are you interested in that stuff?” Toni Prescott would ask her. “Come on to P. J. Mulligans with me and have some fun.”

“Don’t you care about art?”

Toni laughed. “Sure. What’s his last name?”

There was only one cloud hanging over Alette Peter’s life. She was manic-depressive. She suffered from anomie, a feeling of alienation from others. Her mood swings always caught her unaware, and in an instant, she could go from a blissful euphoria to a desperate misery. She had no control over her emotions.

Toni was the only one with whom Alette would discuss her problems. Toni had a solution for everything, and it was usually: “Let’s go and have some fun!”

Toni’s favorite subject was Ashley Patterson. She was watching Shane Miller talking to Ashley.

“Look at that tight-assed bitch, ” Toni said contemptuously. “She’s the ice queen.”

Alette nodded. “She’s very serious. Someone should teach her how to laugh.”

Toni snorted. “Someone should teach her how to fuck.”

One night a week, Alette would go to the mission for the homeless in San Francisco and help serve dinner. There was one little old woman in particular who looked forward to Alette’s visits. She was in a wheelchair, and Alette would help her to a table and bring her hot food.

The woman said gratefully, “Dear, if I had a daughter, I’d want her to be exactly like you.”

Alette squeezed her hand. “That’s such a great compliment. Thank you.” And her inner voice said,
If you had a daughter, she’d look like a pig like you.
And Alette was horrified by her thoughts. It was as though someone else inside her was saying those words. It happened constantly.

She was out shopping with Betty Hardy, a woman who was a member of Alette’s church. They stopped in front of a department store. Betty was admiring a dress in the window. “Isn’t that beautiful?”

“Lovely,” Alette said.
That’s the ugliest dress I’ve ever seen. Perfect for you.

One evening, Alette had dinner with Ronald, a sexton at the church. “I really enjoy being with you, Alette. Let’s do this more often.”

She smiled shyly. “I’d like that.” And she thought,
Non faccia, lo stupido. Maybe in another lifetime, creep.
And again she was horrified.
What’s wrong with me?
And she had no answer.

The smallest slights, whether intended or not, drove Alette into a rage. Driving to work one morning, a car cut in front of her. She gritted her teeth and thought,
I’ll kill you, you bastard.
The man waved apologetically, and Alette smiled sweetly. But the rage was still there.

When the black cloud descended, Alette would imagine people on the street having heart attacks or being struck by automobiles or being mugged and killed. She would play the scenes out in her mind, and they were vividly real. Moments later, she would be filled with shame.

On her good days, Alette was a completely different person. She was genuinely kind and sympathetic and enjoyed helping people. The only thing that spoiled her happiness was the knowledge that the darkness would come down on her again, and she would be lost in it.

Every Sunday morning, Alette went to church. The church had volunteer programs to feed the homeless, to teach after-school art lessons and to tutor students. Alette would lead children’s Sunday school classes and help in the nursery. She volunteered for all of the charitable activities and devoted as much time as she could to them. She particularly enjoyed giving painting classes for the young.

One Sunday, the church had a fair for a fund-raiser, and Alette brought in some of her own paintings for the church to sell. The pastor, Frank Selvaggio, looked at them in amazement.

“These are—These are brilliant! You should be selling them at a gallery.”

Alette blushed. “No, not really. I just do them for fun.”

The fair was crowded. The churchgoers had brought their friends and families, and game booths as well as arts-and-crafts booths had been set up for their enjoyment. There were beautifully decorated cakes, incredible handmade quilts, homemade jams in beautiful jars, carved wooden toys. People were going from booth to booth, sampling the sweets, buying things they would have no use for the next day.

“But it’s in the name of charity,” Alette heard one woman explain to her husband.

Alette looked at the paintings that she had placed around the
booth, most of them landscapes in bright, vivid colors that leaped from the canvas. She was filled with misgivings.
“You’re wasting good money on paint, child.”

A man came up to the booth. “Hi, there. Did you paint these?”

His voice was a deep blue.

No, stupid. Michelangelo dropped by and painted them.

“You’re very talented.”

“Thank you.”
What do you know about talent?

A young couple stopped at Alette’s booth. “Look at those colors! I have to have that one. You’re really good.”

And all afternoon people came to her booth to buy her paintings and to tell her how much talent she had. And Alette wanted to believe them, but each time the black curtain came down and she thought,
They’re all being cheated.

An art dealer came by. “These are really lovely. You should merchandise your talent.”

“I’m just an amateur,” Alette insisted. And she refused to discuss it any further.

At the end of the day, Alette had sold every one of her paintings. She gathered the money that people had paid her, put it in an envelope and handed it to Pastor Frank Selvaggio.

He took it and said, “Thank you, Alette. You have a great gift, bringing so much beauty into people’s lives.”

Did you hear that, Mother?

When Alette was in San Francisco, she spent hours visiting the Museum of Modern Art, and she haunted the De Young Museum to study their collection of American art.

Several young artists were copying some of the paintings on
the museum’s walls. One young man in particular caught Alette’s eye. He was in his late twenties, slim and blond, with a strong, intelligent face. He was copying Georgia O’Keeffe’s
Petunias,
and his work was remarkably good. The artist noticed Alette watching him. “Hi.”

His voice was a warm yellow.

“Hello,” Alette said shyly.

The artist nodded toward the painting he was working on. “What do you think?”

“Bellissimo.
I think it’s wonderful.” And she waited for her inner voice to say,
For a stupid amateur.
But it didn’t happen. She was surprised. “It’s really wonderful.”

He smiled. “Thank you. My name is Richard, Richard Melton.”

“Alette Peters.”

“Do you come here often?” Richard asked.

“Sì.
As often as I can. I don’t live in San Francisco.”

“Where do you live?”

“In Cupertino.”
Not
—
“It’s none of your damn business” or “Wouldn’t you like to know?” but
—
“In Cupertino.” What is happening to me?

“That’s a nice little town.”

“I like it.”
Not
—
“What the hell makes you think it’s a nice little town?” or “What do you know about nice little towns?” but—"I like it.”

He was finished with the painting. “I’m hungry. Can I buy you lunch? Cafe De Young has pretty good food.”

Alette hesitated only a moment.
“Va bene.
I’d like that.”
Not
—
“You look stupid” or “I don’t have lunch with strangers,” but
—
“I’d like that.”
It was a new, exhilarating experience for Alette.

The lunch was extremely enjoyable and not once did negative thoughts come into Alette’s mind. They talked about some of the great artists, and Alette told Richard about growing up in Rome.

“I’ve never been to Rome,” he said. “Maybe one day.”

And Alette thought,
It would be fun to go to Rome with you.

As they were finishing their lunch, Richard saw his roommate across the room and called him over to the table. “Gary, I didn’t know you were going to be here. I’d like you to meet someone. This is Alette Peters. Gary King.”

Gary was in his late twenties, with bright blue eyes and hair down to his shoulders.

“It’s nice to meet you, Gary.”

“Gary’s been my best friend since high school, Alette.”

“Yeah. I have ten years of dirt on Richard, so if you’re looking for any good stories—”

“Gary, don’t you have somewhere to go?”

“Right.” He turned to Alette. “But don’t forget my offer. I’ll see you two around.”

They watched Gary leave. Richard said, “Alette…”

“Yes?”

“May I see you again?”

“I would like that.”
Very much.

Monday morning, Alette told Toni about her experience. “Don’t get involved with an artist,” Toni warned. “You’ll be living on the fruit he paints. Are you going to see him again?”

Alette smiled. “Yes. I think he likes me. And I like him. I really like him.”

It started as a small disagreement and ended up as a ferocious argument. Pastor Frank was retiring after forty years of service. He had been a very good and caring pastor, and the congregation was sorry to see him leave. There were secret meetings held to decide what to give him as a going-away present. A watch . .. money…a vacation…a painting…He loved art.

“Why don’t we have someone do a portrait of him, with the church in the background?” They turned to Alette. “Will you do it?”

“Of course,” she said happily.

Walter Manning was one of the senior members of the church and one of its biggest contributors. He was a very successful businessman, but he seemed to resent everyone else’s success. He said, “My daughter is a fine painter. Perhaps she should do it.”

Someone suggested, “Why not have them both do it, and we’ll vote on which one to give Pastor Frank?”

Alette went to work. The painting took her five days, and it was a masterpiece, glowing with the compassion and goodness of her subject. The following Sunday, the group met to look at the paintings. There were exclamations of appreciation over Alette’s painting.

“It’s so real, he could almost walk off the canvas…”

“Oh, he’s going to love that…”

“That should be in a museum, Alette…”

Walter Manning unwrapped the canvas painted by his daughter. It was a competent painting, but it lacked the fire of Alette’s portrait.

“That’s very nice,” one of the members of the congregation said tactfully, “but I think Alette’s is—”

I agree.. ..

“Alette’s portrait is the one…”

Walter Manning spoke up. “This has to be a unanimous decision. My daughter’s a professional artist"—he looked at Alette—"not a dilettante. She did this as a favor. We can’t turn her down.”

“But, Walter—”

“No, sir. This has to be unanimous. We’re either giving him my daughter’s painting or we don’t give him anything at all.”

Alette said, “I like her painting very much. Let’s give it to the pastor.”

Walter Manning smiled smugly and said, “He’s going to be very pleased with this.”

On his way home that evening, Walter Manning was killed by a hit-and-run driver.

When Alette heard the news, she was stunned.

A
SHLEY Patterson was taking a hurried shower, late for work, when she heard the sound. A door opening? Closing? She turned off the shower, listening, her heart pounding.
Silence.
She stood there a moment, her body glistening with drops of water, then hurriedly dried herself and cautiously stepped into the bedroom. Everything appeared to be normal.
It’s my stupid imagination again. I’ve got to get dressed.
She walked over to her lingerie drawer, opened it and stared down at it, unbelievingly. Someone had gone through her undergarments. Her bras and pantyhose were all piled together. She always kept them neatly separated.

Ashley suddenly felt sick to her stomach. Had he unzipped his pants, picked up her pantyhose and rubbed them against himself? Had he fantasized about raping her? Raping her and murdering her? She was finding it difficult to breathe.
I should go to the police, but they would laugh at me.

You want us to investigate this because you think someone got into your lingerie drawer?

Someone has been following me.

Have you seen who it is?

No.

Has anyone threatened you?

No.

Do you know why anyone would want to harm you?

No.

It’s no use,
Ashley thought despairingly.
I can’t go to the police. Those are the questions they would ask me, and I would look like a fool.

She dressed as quickly as she could, suddenly eager to escape from the apartment.
I’ll have to move. I’ll go somewhere where he can’t find me.

But even as she thought it, she had the feeling that it was going to be impossible.
He knows where I live, he knows where I work. And what do I know about him? Nothing.

She refused to keep a gun in the apartment because she hated violence.
But I need some protection now,
Ashley thought. She went into the kitchen, picked up a steak knife, carried it to her bedroom and put it in the dresser drawer next to her bed.

It’s possible that I mixed my lingerie up myself. That’s probably what happened. Or is it wishful thinking?

There was an envelope in her mailbox in the downstairs entrance hall. The return address read “Bedford Area High School, Bedford, Pennsylvania.”

Ashley read the invitation twice.

Ten-Year Class Reunion!

Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief. Have you often wondered how your classmates have fared during the last ten years? Here’s your chance to find out. The weekend of June 15th we’re going to have a spectacular get-together. Food, drinks, a great orchestra and dancing. Join the fun.

Just mail the enclosed acceptance card so we’ll know you’re coming. Everyone looks forward to seeing you.

Driving to work, Ashley thought about the invitation.
“Everyone looks forward to seeing you.” Everyone except Jim Cleary,
she thought bitterly.

“I want to marry you. My uncle offered me a really good job in Chicago with his advertising agency… There’s a train leaving for Chicago at seven A.M. Will you come with me?”

And she remembered the pain of desperately waiting at the station for Jim, believing in him, trusting him. He had changed his mind, and he had not been man enough to come and tell her. Instead, he had left her sitting in a train station, alone.
Forget the invitation. I’m not going.

Ashley had lunch with Shane Miller at TGI Friday’s. They sat in a booth, eating in silence.

“You seem preoccupied,” Shane said.

“Sorry.” Ashley hesitated a moment. She was tempted to tell
him about the lingerie, but it would sound stupid.
Someone got into your drawers?
Instead, she said, “I got an invitation to my ten-year high school reunion.”

“Are you going?”

“Certainly not.” It came out stronger than Ashley had intended.

Shane Miller looked at her curiously. “Why not? Those things can be fun.”

Would Jim Cleary be there? Would he have a wife and children? What would he say to her? “Sorry I wasn’t able to meet you at the train station. Sorry I lied to you about marrying you?”

“I’m not going.”

But Ashley was unable to get the invitation out of her mind.
It would be nice to see some of my old classmates,
she thought. There were a few she had been close to. One in particular was Florence Schiffer.
I wonder what’s become of her?
And she wondered whether the town of Bedford had changed.

Ashley Patterson had grown up in Bedford, Pennsylvania, a small town two hours east of Pittsburgh, deep in the Allegheny Mountains. Her father had been head of the Memorial Hospital of Bedford County, one of the top one hundred hospitals in the country.

Bedford had been a wonderful town to grow up in. There were parks for picnics, rivers to fish in and social events that went on all year. Ashley enjoyed visiting Big Valley, where there was an Amish colony. It was a common sight to see horses pulling Amish buggies with different colored tops, colors that depended on the degree of orthodoxy of the owners.

There were Mystery Village evenings and live theater and the Great Pumpkin Festival. Ashley smiled at the thought of the good times she had had there.
Maybe I will go back,
she thought.
Jim Cleary won’t have the nerve to show up.

Ashley told Shane Miller of her decision. “It’s a week from Friday,” she said. “I’ll be back Sunday night.”

“Great. Let me know what time you’re getting back. I’ll pick you up at the airport.”

“Thank you, Shane.”

When Ashley returned from lunch, she walked into her work cubicle and turned her computer on. To her surprise, a sudden hail of pixels began rolling down the screen, creating an image. She stared at it, bewildered. The dots were forming a picture of her. As Ashley watched, horrified, a hand holding a butcher knife appeared at the top of the screen. The hand was racing toward her image, ready to plunge the knife into her chest.

Ashley screamed, “No!”

She snapped off the monitor and jumped to her feet.

Shane Miller had hurried to her side. “Ashley! What is it?”

She was trembling. “On the .. . the screen—”

Shane turned on the computer. A picture of a kitten chasing a ball of yarn across a green lawn appeared.

Shane turned to look at Ashley, bewildered. “What—?”

“It’s—it’s gone,” she whispered.

“What’s gone?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. I—I’ve been under a lot of stress lately, Shane. I’m sorry.”

“Why don’t you go have a talk with Dr. Speakman?”

Ashley had seen Dr. Speakman before. He was the company psychologist hired to counsel stressed-out computer whizzes. He was not a medical doctor, but he was intelligent and understanding, and it was helpful to be able to talk to someone.

“I’ll go,” Ashley said.

Dr. Ben Speakman was in his fifties, a patriarch at the fountain of youth. His office was a quiet oasis at the far end of the building, relaxed and comfortable.

“I had a terrible dream last night,” Ashley said. She closed her eyes, reliving it. “I was running. I was in a huge garden filled with flowers… They had weird, ugly faces… They were screaming at me.…I couldn’t hear what they were saying. I just kept running toward something.…I don’t know what…” She stopped and opened her eyes.

“Could you have been running
away
from something? Was something chasing you?”

“I don’t know. I—I think I’m being followed, Dr. Speakman. It sounds crazy, but—I think someone wants to kill me.”

He studied her a moment. “Who would want to kill you?”

“I—I have no idea.”

“Have you
seen
anyone following you?”

“No.”

“You live alone, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Are you seeing anyone? I mean romantically?”

“No. Not right now.”

“So it’s been a while since you—I mean sometimes when a
woman doesn’t have a man in her life—well, a kind of physical tension can build up…”

What he’s trying to tell me is that I need a good
—She could not bring herself to say the word. She could hear her father yelling at her,
“Don’t ever say that word again. People will think you’re a little slut. Nice people don’t say fuck. Where do you pick up that kind of language?”

“I think you’ve just been working too hard, Ashley. I don’t believe you have anything to worry about. It’s probably just tension. Take it a little easier for a while. Get more rest.”

“I’ll try.”

Shane Miller was waiting for her. “What did Dr. Speakman say?”

Ashley managed a smile. “He says I’m fine. I’ve just been working too hard.”

“Well, we’ll have to do something about that,” Shane said. “For openers, why don’t you take the rest of the day off?” His voice was filled with concern.

“Thanks.” She looked at him and smiled. He was a dear man. A good friend.

He can’t he the one,
Ashley thought.
He can’t.

During the following week, Ashley could think of nothing but the reunion.
I wonder if my going is a mistake? What if Jim Cleary does show up? Does he have any idea how much he hurt me? Does he care? Will he even remember me?

The night before Ashley was to leave for Bedford, she was unable to sleep. She was tempted to cancel her flight.
I’m being silly,
she thought.
The past is the past.

When Ashley picked up her ticket at the airport, she examined it and said, “I’m afraid there’s been some mistake. I’m flying tourist. This is a first-class ticket.”

“Yes. You changed it.”

She stared at the clerk. “I what?”

“You telephoned and said to change it to a first-class ticket.” He showed Ashley a slip of paper. “Is this your credit card number?”

She looked at it and said slowly, “Yes…”

She had not made that phone call.

Ashley arrived in Bedford early and checked in at the Bedford Springs Resort. The reunion festivities did not start until six o’clock that evening, so she decided to explore the town. She hailed a taxi in front of the hotel.

“Where to, miss?”

“Let’s just drive around.”

Hometowns were supposed to look smaller when a native returned years later, but to Ashley, Bedford looked larger than she had remembered. The taxi drove up and down familiar streets, passing the offices of the
Bedford Gazette
and television station WKYE and a dozen familiar restaurants and art galleries. The Baker’s Loaf of Bedford was still there and Clara’s Place, the Fort Bedford Museum and Old Bedford Village. They passed the Memorial Hospital, a graceful three-story brick building with a portico. It was there that her father had become famous.

She recalled again the terrible, screaming fights between her mother and father. They had always been about the same thing.
About what?
She could not remember.

At five o’clock, Ashley returned to her hotel room. She changed clothes three times before finally deciding on what she was going to wear. She settled on a simple, flattering black dress.

When Ashley entered the festively decorated gymnasium of Bedford Area High School, she found herself surrounded by 120 vaguely familiar-looking strangers. Some of her former classmates were completely unrecognizable, others had changed little. Ashley was looking for one person: Jim Cleary.
Would he have changed much? Would he have his wife with him?
People were approaching Ashley.

“Ashley, it’s Trent Waterson. You look great!”

“Thanks. So do you, Trent.”

“I want you to meet my wife…”

“Ashley, it
is
you, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Er—”

“Art. Art Davies. Remember me?”

“Of course.” He was badly dressed and looked ill at ease.

“How is everything going, Art?”

“Well, you know I wanted to become an engineer, but it didn’t work out.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Anyway, I became a mechanic.”

“Ashley! It’s Lenny Holland. For God’s sake, you look beautiful!”

“Thank you, Lenny.” He had gained weight and was wearing a large diamond ring on his little finger.

“I’m in real estate now, doing great. Did you ever get married?”

Ashley hesitated. “No.”

“Remember Nicki Brandt? We got married. We have twins.”

“Congratulations.”

It was amazing how much people could change in ten years. They were fatter and thinner…prosperous and downtrodden. They were married and divorced .. . parents and parentless…

As the evening wore on, there was dining and music and dancing. Ashley made conversation with her former classmates and caught up on their lives, but her mind was on Jim Cleary. There was still no sign of him.
He won’t come,
she decided.
He knows I might be here and he’s afraid to face me.

An attractive-looking woman was approaching. “Ashley! I was
hoping
I’d see you.” It was Florence Schiffer. Ashley was genuinely glad to see her. Florence had been one of her closest friends. The two of them found a table in the corner, where they could talk.

“You look great, Florence,” Ashley said.

“So do you. Sorry I’m so late. The baby wasn’t feeling well. Since I last saw you, I’ve gotten married and divorced. I’m going out with Mr. Wonderful now. What about you? After the graduation party, you disappeared. I tried to find you, but you’d left town.”

“I went to London,” Ashley said. “My father enrolled me in a college over there. We left here the morning after our graduation.”

“I tried every way I could think of to reach you. The detectives
thought I might know where you were. They were looking for you because you and Jim Cleary were going together.”

Ashley said slowly, “The
detectives?”

“Yes. The ones investigating the murder.”

Ashley felt the blood drain from her face. “What…murder?”

Florence was staring at her. “My God! You don’t know?”

“Know what?”
Ashley demanded fiercely. “What are you talking about?”

“The day after the graduation party, Jim’s parents came back and found his body. He had been stabbed to death and…castrated.”